


Fever Bright

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gentleness, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sickfic, Smut, handjobs, sick sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Space-flu? Psh. It won't keep an old dog down.





	Fever Bright

**Author's Note:**

> **:sees a little life in the fandom and pokes head back in: I promise I am working on a sequel to That Stakardu Cliffhanger! It just may take some time, because Work is Hell and I have too many original projects and Transformers fics to work on. Lord help me. This is an old fic from deep within my vault that was never intended for eyes other than mine.**

“Ya shouldn’t be here,” Yondu grunts. He’s slouched on a pillow mountain like a king from an old tale, sweat sparkling on his skin like fucking diamond dust or some poetic shit.

Then he turns to one side and coughs. The illusion breaks. Kraglin flinches at the bark of it - raspy, froggish, low in the chest.

“I’ll just give it to ya,” Yondu continues. He drapes his hand over his sticky eyes, shielding them from the bright whisker of light that pokes from beneath the cabin door.

Kraglin shuffles to the bed. “Probably got it anyway, sir,” he says, as he pours into his dip. That's a cast of each of his thin bones, stamped into the mattress by Yondu's side. “If it ain’t hit me yet, I won’t get bad. Doc says symptoms're species spee-siff-ic.”

Yondu ought to argue. Push him away for the lad’s own good – because Kraglin can be a sentimental gobshite, the sort to fib to get close to his contagious captain. Then what's he supposed to do? Like hell is Yondu repaying this favour, lounging about on the idjit's sickbed and keeping his sorry ass company.

But Kraglin’s gloves are cool when his palm rests on Yondu's forehead, and the huff he makes, somewhere between irritated and aggrieved, makes warm fuzzies fill his chest.

No – wait. That's just another cough.

“You been drinkin’?” Kraglin asks, once Yondu's hacked up his next portion of catarrh. He lifts Yondu's grizzled chin, running gloved fingers over stubble and flaky lips.

Yondu can't smell him. Can't chew on that brew of BO and leather-tanning solution, rotten-eggs from the engine fumes, the grease Kraglin slathers on his mohawk in the mornings to keep it all crunchy and stiff. He misses that stink, in a weird sorta way.

Kraglin ignores his soggy attempts to sniff him. “Course you ain’t. Shit, captain, you gotta look out for yerself.”

Yada, yada. Yondu lets himself drift. He grumbles when the cold hands retreat, though they're back soon enough, and this time, they bring gifts.

“Here sir." Kraglin kneels behind him, heaving Yondu's head and shoulders onto his lap, pulling him to a vague approximation of sitting. The rim of a glass scrapes Yondu's chin.

Yondu can't see it – too dark for that. But he tilts his head and follows the dampness like an orloni kit chasing the teat.

Kraglin holds it steady for him. He holds Yondu too, cupping his cheek in a way that's far too tender.

Yondu'll chew him out for it later. For now, he drinks, not realizing he’s thirsty until the first drop spreads on his tongue.

He gulps half the glass before Kraglin eases him off and reminds him he needs to breathe. Once it's empty - drained at a pace Kraglin approves of, cause Yondu's too tired to argue - Yondu knocks it to join the other crud littering their floor and snuggles back against him, a firm weight that pins Kraglin to the pillows.

Their bodies are so close that he can feel Kraglin swallow, feel the thinness of his chest and the curve of his belly, the shape of his prick below. That's soft, as of yet, but hey.

Ain't nothing that can't be fixed with a bit of spit-shine and polish.

Yondu's already determined that this bout of the snuffles ain't gonna keep him down. Plus, with his head throbbing like he's stuck it in a nuclear reactor core, he could use the distraction.

He rocks back. Not much - could be rearranging, for all Kraglin knows.

But Kraglin's always been sharper than most folks give him credit for. He shuffles from one bony asscheek to the other. “Um. What ya doin’ there, sir?"

Yondu rubs his implant over those stupid tats and the scar from their first meeting: the impression of his chipped front teeth cut forever over Kraglin's collarbones.

“Dunno,” he croaks. “Feel good?”

Fingers brush his boxers, weigh the softness beneath. “You ain’t in no shape to be fuckin'.”

"You ain't the boss of me, Obfonteri."

The words _sound_ blurry. Can things sound blurry?

Kraglin don't answer right away. Yondu takes matters into his own hands, easing himself face-down on the mattress - or collapsing, if he's being honest - and waggling his ass in something approaching invitation.

“You wanna?” he asks.

"You're sick."

"Thassa statement, not an answer. You don't wanna, you just say the word."

Kraglin doesn't say shit. His hands are far more eloquent, retreating into neutral territory.

Yondu rolls his eyes. "Quite the Saint, ain'tchu, Krags?"

Kraglin makes an offended noise.

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

“Not if you pass out.”

Yondu chokes on his gravelly laugh. “Have to go sweet on me, won’t you.”

Kraglin’s hands freeze, midway through kneading the sweaty meat of his back. Shame. Yondu kinda liked that. In a tough, manly sort of way, as opposed to a melty, purring one.

“Uh."

"What?"

"You, uh. Want it. Sweet, sir?"

Yondu’s too fevered to bluff. “Might fall asleep, but ain’t nothin’ personal.”

Kraglin snorts. He strokes from Yondu's nape to the dimples over his kidneys, never lingering on the ugly gnarl of a scar. Them leather gloves of his swish over hot fevered skin. “Maybe if ya took that yearly immuno-booster vacc, ya wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Maybe if you sit on my dick,” Yondu retorts, “I won’t lend your M-ship out to Horuz.”

The hand trails a little lower. “You wouldn’t, sir.”

Yondu smirks into the mattress, sheets bunched against his face. If he burrows right down into 'em, the stink soaks through the mucus plugs in his nose. Sour semen, sourer breath. The two of them combined.

"Yeah, I would. But if ya make me cum, I might not remember sayin' it come morning.”

Fingers linger on Yondu's hip. Kraglin's thumb draws crescents against the spare tyre beyond, which (as Peter likes to say) has grown from 'fitting a bicycle' to 'spare wheel in a jeep' as the years roll by (whatever that means). His nail pinches through the leather like a fang.

"You sayin' ya want me to screw yer brains out, boss?"

Yondu twists his head to one side. He stares at Kraglin's silhouette until his brain decides there's only one of him, and no, he isn't spinning.

"Don't think it'll take much."

Kraglin hums like he's weighing up cons and pros. But he eases Yondu's frayed underwear aside and helps him heft his weight up on one side so Kraglin can tuck in behind, wind around his body, play it like it's his own. He lifts his prick with that cool, smooth glove, so Yondu fills his hand as he warms. His knees clonk on the back of Yondu's, though he stays half-seated, twisted up at the waist, smirking down at him from on high.

"Ain't much of a challenge."

Yondu flaps about behind him. He hooks the empty gun-belt loops on Kraglin's jumpsuit and tugs till the idjit gets the message and settles in proper-like, one arm looped over Yondu's belly, to pull and to play.

"Lazy sod. This here's an easy job; don'tchu bitch 'bout it."

"I ain't _lazy._ I'm _eh-fish-ent._ There's a difference."

"Sure there is. Get to provin' it."

Kraglin rolls his eyes but, as ever, does as his captain commands. He squeezes, strokes, tugging ever-so-lightly at his balls.

If Yondu gets any hotter he'll burn like a Kree heretic on the pyre. But this slow, heavy heat in his abdomen ain't nothing like the fever. He rolls into it, best he can, hitching his hips with no sense of rhythm, licking spit off his sore, dry lips.

Reminds him of being high, albeit with more gunge. Sweat glossing his bare limbs. Thoughts sloppy. Balance gone, room whirling, every rock, every tremor, only adding to his vertigo.

Kraglin's _there_ though, supporting his cock as it swells. His gloved fingers tuck under the shaft. The bilgesnipe kid-skin is sinfully, maddeningly soft. Like butter, like silk. Like everything Yondu should mock and hate. Not tonight though. Not tonight. 

Kraglin holds him in a loose cup, sliding back and forth. Slow, steady. Sweet, like he promised.

It's far too much and not enough. Yondu snorts in a valiant effort to stop his nose running all over the bed, while Kraglin rests his thumb over the sticky tip and _presses_ until Yondu's ass quivers and his knees rub and the throb of _want_ pierces through him, so intense that he moans...

"Dang, boss. Look atcha. Ain't you a sight."

Liar. Yondu's a frightful thing when he's undone. No sign of the tough captain. He's drooling, but he can't shut his mouth. Can't stop making those stupid, whorey, _needy_ little noises, as Kraglin plies forth a bead of pre-cum and paints his cockhead pearly. His frazzled eyes adjust to the dark, enough to let him watch Kraglin's fist around his dick, the slow slide corresponding with the cool graze of his sleeve on Yondu's pouch.

Kraglin must be soaked, pressed like he is against Yondu's fever-damp back. But he don't complain, kissing the salt off a blue shoulder and nibbling the crest of his ear.

That flicks. Air. He needs air. He needs more, needs for Kraglin to bully him, pull his cock till it scorches hotter than the pressure behind his eyeballs. Needs for the dick against his ass to quit jabbing him in the tailbone and slip inside, break him open while Kraglin snarls  _cap'n_ against his pulse _._

Needs... needs...

"Mm, thassit."

Yondu damn near _wails_ when Kraglin lets go. He doesn't have time to formulate words, much less demand Kraglin return to his duties. There's the crude splat of spit on glove. Then, reliable XO that he is, Obfonteri gathers him up once more. 

It's slicker than before. Hotter too, almost impossibly so. Pull and twist, twist and pull. Almost like there's a mouth on him.

Yondu's eyes roll back. His jaw pushes out in a furious grimace and his sharp claws score lines in the sheets, toes curling under to press on the base of his twitching blue feet.

"Kraglin - _Kraglin..._ "

Kraglin catches his ear. He sucks on it as Yondu's abs press up through his pouch and his balls tighten.

" _Kraglin..._ "

His head _burns,_ burns like an engine tank before explosion. But -

" _Krag-!_ "

His dick goes off first, squirting over Kraglin's dirty glove.

Flecks smatter Yondu's belly, slithering through the sweat. His vision whites out, taking the rest of him with it. Stars know _where_. Yondu don't know who he is, what he is. Just that he's sunk against his mate's chest, and he's panting like he's suffocating, and his nose is so bunged up that he actually might be.

Kraglin don't let go. He kisses Yondu's pierced earlobe and holds his pulsing cock in a cradle of smooth red leather. When that's too much - Yondu jerking and shaking, brain too fuzzy to conjure words besides _oh_ and _fuck_ \- Kraglin releases him with a fondle of the crinkled, hairless skin beneath, reaching into his own fly while he nuzzles Yondu's neck.

Yondu barely notices. He's boneless, practically deceased. By the time Kraglin's hips hitch and the wet patch soaks his leg, Yondu's long gone, slack against the bedclothes, blowing snotty bubbles as he snores.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“If ya get sick, it’s your own fucking fault,” he reminds him next morning, around a jaw-popper of a yawn. He actually feels like a sapient being, which is nice, as opposed to a blob of phlegm and misery. “Don’t come cryin' to me.”

Kraglin’s wiggled around him in the night. Now he's tucked up like a gangly cat, head under Yondu's chin. His goofy teeth scrape the scar on Yondu's pectoral when he smiles.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and sneezes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Kisses for all kudos-leavers and commenters. Excuse the perspective-shift at the beginning; lazy writing, I know.**


End file.
